The Director's Chair
by Donald Skuza
Summary: A short story of a chance in Hollywood. For one man and his father, it seems easy. The only problem is that the competition is a family friend. My first upload to here, tell me what you think. I've rated it 'T' because of a few gun references.


**The Director's Chair**

**A short story by Donald Skuza.**

"Patience is a virtue...", my dad said, patting me on the head.

The day was quiet. The bank in the center of Los Angeles was opening. The year was 1945. Movies were still in black and white, televisions became an instant hit. The bank manager opened the doors, and people rushed in. The Great Depression wasn't that long ago, so banks didn't have much money. However, this bank did. In fact, it had the most money in all of California. It even had the most security. About an hour and a half after the bank opened, four guys walked in. They looked like anyone else, except they had bags in their hands. In a few minutes, the four men had hostages, and cops had surrounded the bank. One of the robbers shouted as loud as he could over the sound of gunshots. "Get the money in the bags, fifties and hundreds, nothing that will slow us down!". The men ran out, weilding Thompson 1921s, also known as the 'Tommy Gun'. They were running toward where the getaway car was supposed to be. Unfortunately, the driver took off when gunshots were fired. Now only two of the four men stood firing their weapons. Another one of the robbers screamed. "Go go go!", and three cops surrounded them. Out of seemingly no where, a ladder falls on the street. "Are you serious!", yelled Randall, the rich director that was directing the movie happening. I was the guy with the notebook, sitting in the corner, taking notes. Little did I know that Randall saw something in me. "Alright... one more time.", Randall said, sighing in disappointment at the crew he paid good money for. The camera fell in another take. "We've been doing this all day now! Why can't we get it right!", Randall shouted. He slammed his hand on a table, and went back to his job. The take was finished half an hour later. Now it was midnight. I walked home. Someone rolled up the sidewalks. I was waiting for some tall guy with a knife to hold me up. "Hands up, nice and slow.", a tall guy in a coat said. "Alright, alright...", I sighed, putting my hands up. I had to get home. "Where's your wallet hotshot?", the man said. "It's in my shoe.", I nearly whispered. "It's not here!", the man screamed. "My other shoe.", I backfired at him. I kneed him in the face, running away. I heard the distinctive sound... the clicking of shoes in an alleyway chasing me. A taxi was at the end of the street. I raced after it. "Taxi, taxi!", I shouted. The taxi pulled over, I hopped in. "Drive!", I yelled. The taxi stopped at a block away from my house, to avoid the robber from tailing me. "Here.", I said through the window, passing him a dollar. A dollar was a lot back then. I sat on my couch starring out the window, sipping at cola. I woke to a phone call. I answered the phone quickly. "Hello..." I said, sounding very tired. "This is Randall... Randall Cannon?", he said, figuring I knew him. "Yes, the director of the movie.", I reminded him. "Yeah... I was wondering if you could stop at the studio.", he asked. "It's three in the morning Randall, but I'll stop by." I hung up the phone, throwing a jacket on. I walked to my garage. I opened up the door. There sat a Ford hot-rod. I sat in the car, situating myself. Turning the key, I could immediately smell the familiar smell of gasoline coming from everywhere inside the car. I pulled out of the garage, driving to Randall's studio. It took me all but five minutes to get there in a car such as this. I walked inside. Randall sat there, looking very upset. "Randall... what's up?", I asked. He was sipping at a canteen, the smell of alcohol coming from his side of the room. "Guessing I wasn't eating my apples, I had to see the doctor yesterday.", he said, chuckling a storm after. "What's that got to do with me showing up here?", I questioned. "I got something in my blood, supposed to kill me in three months.", Randall said. "Good god, what happened?", I asked. "Not sure, it's a rare disease.", Randall told me. "What do you intend I do?", I asked. "I want you to win my chair." Randall said in disappointment. "You're going to make the best short film anyone has ever seen... using my crew, my tools, my cameras, everything I have. Then, you're going to submit it to the young director giveaway that I submitted you in. It's you and Nick against each other.", Randall warned me. "Nick makes really good films though. How am I supposed to top his expertise?", I asked. It was a rhetorical question, but he answered me. "Become a professional, that's how.", said Randall, throwing his best drunken retort. "Whoever wins gets all of my money, and all of my fame... that includes my job.", he added. I insured him that my film would be the best, talked with him for a while, and then I went home. At home, I sat in my bed reading a few chapters worth of Tom Sawyer. I fell asleep with the book in my hand. I woke up early, putting a coat on, opening the garage, stepping into my car, turning the key, and driving to my dad's house. It had been a long time since I saw him. I walked up to his door, my Ford parked in his driveway. I knocked on the door, standing on the familiar wood porch. He opened the door with a smile on his face, laughing in joy. I greeted him, and he led me into the kitchen. "Well how have you been son?", my dad asked. "Fine, how about you?", I asked back. "Well, you know... I've been bad.", he said. "I go to bed alone every night...", he added. We paused for a few seconds, trying to think of some other subject to begin on. He poured me a cup of tea, and led me into the family room. I couldn't help but to compare my apartment to my old house. "New furniture.", I pointed out. "You noticed? You always had a sharp eye. You can thank your mother for that.", he responded with a chuckle. "You found work?", asked my dad. "No actually.", I pointed out. "Well you would have been home more often had you not found work.", he knew instinctively. "I've been reading the papers, Mr. Adams.", I said, smiling. "Yeah, I run the bank in the center of town.", he told me. While my dad poured me some more tea, I thought about my childhood. It was Christmas, 1934. I was nine, I was curious, and I was excited to see what presents I was getting. I ran down the stairs. You could hear us practically screaming through the whole house. I ripped open a present, seeing what was inside. My mom put her hand on my shoulder. "It's what you wanted, right?", my mother was wondering. I pulled out a box of 'Lincoln Logs'. I sipped at my tea, talking to my dad. I remember those days. "Well dad, you're going to wish me luck, right?", I asked. "For?", he asked back. "I'm going to Hollywood.", I answered. He was chuckling. "Your dream job.", he said, hugging me. I could feel his rain hitting my shoulder. The next day, I drove to the announcement with my dad. Today was the day. "Lets listen.", I whispered. "The winner of the 1945 movie directing hand down is...", the announcer talked in the microphone. I sat in my car, amped up. "Nicholas Parker!", the announcer yelled, the audience clapping with him. I turned the key for my car, and drove my dad home. "Guess I really can't win everything.", I told my dad. "Son... don't give up. He probably paid Randall off, you know how Nick is.", my dad reminded me. Nick never went anywhere. His job ended in 1952, with his last movie flying over like a led balloon. His idea was terrible. My job started in 1976. My Vietnam movie was complete. The plot was amazing. My son is a director, and his son wants to be an actor. I wouldn't have gone anywhere if my dad didn't tell me something when I was a kid. "Patience is a virtue...", my dad said, patting me on the head. Life is good, but I'm not a kid anymore, and the death of my father could only leave me to write for an alternative to forget about the past. My next movie has been in business since 1945, the day of the directing hand down announcement. I'm playing the role as my dad. I feel I can play him the best.


End file.
